The Side Of The Angels
by LosGatos
Summary: Jim has been robbed. Left with just two weeks to pay his rent and 221 pounds in his bank account, he decides to see just what he can get up to. Please R&R, it would make my day.
1. Chapter 1: King of The Burgers

"I may be on the side of the angels, But don't think for a second that I am one of them."

What a cheesy thing to say in your final moments. Even looking at it after a year, Jim still found side-splittingly hilarious. He had to restrain himself on the rooftop. It's hard to intimidate people when you're laughing your arse off, even if you are a psychopath. But he didn't have much to laugh about now, what with his whole operation falling down around him. Yeah, maybe he should have told a few people he was faking his death. Of course there were a couple of his top men who knew about it, and the odd person who still believed. But he thought he would be able to live a life of peace and relaxation now. He could have, but he found out he didn't want to. He had basically sulked around his apartment for the past 11 months, thinking of things to do. But ideas were wearing thin. Assassinating each successive president of Estonia is only a laugh for so long, after all.

It was 9 PM, and he was having his sixth cup of Moriar Tea (Yeah, tired joke) that day. He hadn't been sleeping well. He learned that sleep deprivation was like acid, only free. Not that he had ever done acid. In the past five years.

Five cups of Earl Grey soon caught up with him and he needed to piss, badly. He then realised the extent of his sleep deprivation. He wasn't in the bathroom, he was in the kitchen. And he wasn't slashing into a toilet, he was going into the frying pan. Again. This was getting out of hand. He couldn't remember what happened five minutes ago. He hadn't eaten in two days and the bills were piling up. Yeah, even a villain has to pay the rent. His stomach turned over again and he chucked up a load of three day old kebab into the frying pan. Fried urine and vomit actually sounded like a good idea from where he was standing. And he wasn't even Belgian.

He resisted the urge to cook his own bodily waste and slumped down in front of the computer. He hadn't checked his bank balance in a month and thought he should pay off some of those bills. He logged onto nationwide banking and… oh, that can't be right.

"You have 221 pounds bank balance."

Bastard. Bastard, Bastard, Bastard on a stick. He probably thought he was funny, committing an act of identity theft. Jim was down on his luck and this piece of knobcheese was adding insult to injury.

Well it wasn't funny. Jim sat down and felt like crying. It was so not fair, kicking a man when he was down. Not very considerate. But then he remembered he was a genius. He ran a trace on his missing funds and found out his transaction history. Last week, all but two hundred and twenty one pounds of his own money was withdrawn by an IP address originating from…

"You're shitting me."

Nigeria. Of all the places to pick, he had to pick the one best known for cash fraud. How bloody appropriate. So he had two weeks left to pay rent or he would be getting chucked out onto the streets of London. But he still had 221 pounds left so what could he do? He could run off to Prague, he hadn't been there in a while. Then it came to him.

Burger King.

"Baby, you should see me in a paper crown."

As he stood in line, he examined his credit card. It was for one of his favourite false identities, Moriarty McFly. Well, come on, it was the 90s. And he did own a DeLorean for about six months in 2002. He bought it on impulse because he was in a good mood having just mooned the president of Venezuela. He ended up putting it into a ditch in Vietnam. If only he could drive it as well as he drove a black taxi.

And then it was his turn to order. He hadn't ordered food in ages. How did it go again?

"Can I help you?" Asked the fresh-faced girl behind the counter.

"Yeah," He replied. "Give me a double Whopper. With cheese. And bacon. And fries. And a coke. And just make everything supersized. Wait, give me an ice-cream as well. In fact, make that two ice-creams, I'm starving."

The people behind him in line shot him a look that said _you fat bastard_ but Jim didn't care. He had food in front of him within five minutes. It felt good to be back in the game, even if all he did was buy enough processed food to make him sick. But he was so hungry, he could eat an elephant. In fact, he was going to do that when he went to Africa to kill the man who had shamelessly stolen from him. He wondered what elephant tasted like. Probably chicken.

As he tucked in to his fast food, he felt more satisfied than he had when he saw that video of Sherlock falling. Maybe the ordinary people weren't so stupid after all. This meal might have cost him 16 quid, but it was worth each and every penny. 16 quid. He still had 210 pounds left. Time for a spot of… Recreational Scolding.


	2. Chapter 2: The Woman

Recreational scolding? Nah. That sounded a bit… loony. He still wanted to talk to Miss Adler though; maybe she had seen Mr Holmes lately. She was, after all, intent on having dinner with him. Yeah, Jim hacked her phone. He does all the work and those News of the World pricks take all the credit. Typical bloody journalists, always leeching off of others. But they can be great help when it comes to, say, defaming your arch-nemesis. But that's all they're good for.

As he walked down the road to Irene's house, he remembered growing up in the area. Whilst most bastard kids were vandalising cars or killing poor innocent kittens he was playing mind games with the elderly and blackmailing his teachers. Well, they have pissed their lives away, so they get what they deserve. "Try to teach me Pythagoras, will you, you pricks?" He thought to himself. He, of course knew advanced mathematics by the time he was thirteen anyway, so what was the point? The highlight of his school years was sneaking out to that Bee Gees concert. He still had that ringtone. Only now was he beginning to think it said _Mid-life crisis. _He was never wrong before.

He approached the door of Irene Adler's house and knocked. The voice of an old man answered him.

"Who is it?" Asked the oldie.

"I'm here to see Irene. Let me in." Replied Jim.

"Really? I don't know if Ms Adler would-"

"Let me in, you old pervert!"

This seemed to stir the old geezer into action. The door was open in a flash. Jim walked in. he noticed that not much had changed since he last visited for… well… you know… when he was drunk. And everywhere else was closed. And he couldn't find his way home.

"Where is she?" He asked.

"She's upstairs, second door on the right. I warn you though, she hasn't been-"

"I didn't ask for your life story! I only have two weeks before I get chucked out on the street! Out of my way!" Jim still had the power of intimidation, obviously. The old man got out of his way and watched nervously as Jim walked upstairs. "His funeral," He muttered.

Jim opened the second door on the right. The house now had a vague stench of death about it, like someone had died and not bothered to clean up after themselves. Given Irene's credentials, this was somewhat likely. Jim was pondering this when he heard a voice from inside the room.

"What makes you think you're welcome here?" She asked.

"Irene!" Jim said, trying to sound surprised. "You look… well, like you always have, actually. Who pissed in your cereal?"

At this point, the woman stood up and showed Jim her right hand. The problem became immediately apparent.

"Ah, yes." Said Jim. "But look on the bright side, at least your head's intact."

The woman was missing three fingers. "Bright side?" She asked. "I went through an immense amount of pain losing these. And it wasn't the sort of pain I enjoy, either."

Jim thought of something to break the tension. "So… how was the middle east?" He asked.

"Quite thrilling, actually." Was her reply. "You know how it is, one minute you're on holiday, and the next minute a load of terrorists are threatening to behead you on camera. And thing is, they've been sent by one man in particular…"

This made Jim sweat slightly. "Ah! Yes, well. Funny how that sort of thing happens, isn't it?" Irene didn't let him finish that.

"And then, when said man hears that he has failed, he forces the man I really love to jump to his death from the roof of a hospital! Oh, how I wonder what sort of arsehole would have the nerve!" She was totally freaking out now, and not in the good sense.

"Oh, come on," Begged Jim. "It had nothing to do with you, I swear! It's just… look, Is there any possible way I could repay you?"

"Just one." Answered the woman. "One small way."

"Just tell me!" shouted Jim.

"You couldn't lend me a hundred quid, could you?"

For god's sake.


	3. Chapter 3: Bus Stop Blues

110 pounds left. To say that Jim was down on his luck was an understatement of the highest order.

Oh, come on. He was hardly going to refuse Ms Adler the money. And she didn't even say why she needed it. But she gave him the Bambi eyes and… *sigh* he was still a sucker. In fact, had Sherlock done it on the rooftop, he would have just made it easier and shot him himself. Sherlock really was an ungrateful bastard, you know. Jim gave him the key to an easy life. After he was done convincing everyone he had bit the bullet, swallowed it, digested it and excreted it, Sherlock could have retired. He could have gone to Venice, or Paris or Rome. But no. He had to fuck off to Nigeria and rob a guilty man of his hard-earned blood money. The old ways were dead.

Jim did the most tramp-like thing he had done in a while. He sat on a wall and wondered where he could make some money. He could mug the rich looking dude coming up the street and… no, he couldn't. To do so would be an offense to the Moriarty Empire, or at least what was left of it. Yes, he had murdered, and lied, and cheated, and stolen. But he had done all of this with his brains. He couldn't help it if he was smarter than everyone else, it wasn't his fault. He couldn't mug a person because it just wasn't sporting.

He didn't need money. He needed something to occupy his mind. He needed to go to Nigeria and find the man who put him in this situation… and tell him he was sorry.

Yeah. Apologize. Because this had made him realise something. It doesn't matter how many people you kill, or how much money you have, all that matters is that you have people in the world you can relate to. And who can relate to each other better than two people who have both faked their deaths? See, that's what it's all about. The common evil. But those fangirls, those bloody fangirls. Sherlock had plenty. Jim had seen them, breaking down and crying on Baker Street. For god's sake, where were his fangirls? Maybe the ladies didn't appreciate a dashing rogue like they used to.

Time to get off the wall, Jim. You aren't going to apologize to nobody. You haven't said sorry yet, and why break a winning streak? Holmes doesn't deserve it, anyway. He's come out of this just fine, and you're a financial wreck. Still, you can't have the fucker shot.

What he wanted was a cardboard sign saying **WILL BREAK LAW FOR MONEY.** Not because he was a tramp or anything but he just thought it would be funny. Now was not the time for moping. He needed something to do. He decided he should probably take shelter, as it was starting to rain quite heavily. He didn't think it would last very long, so he just sat at a bus shelter. In reality, this was the worst thing he could have done. You see, other people need to use bus shelters as well. Jim knew people. He knew the woman who had just sat next to him very well indeed.

"Can't let her see my face," He thought to himself as he looked away. It was the mother of all awkward situations. It was almost as awkward as consoling the lover of someone he killed, but he supposed this was close enough.

"Looking away? I know who you are."

Shit, she had seen him. Oh well, how bad could it be?

Jim replied nervously. "Hello, Molly, how have you been?" He asked.

"A mess, thanks for asking."

Moody. Still, at least she wasn't trying to chop his nuts off. Not like his last fake girlfriend. Honestly, he goes to the effort of pretending to love them, that's more than most men can manage.

"Look," He said. "I'm really, genuinely sorry about Sherlock and-" She cut him off before he could finish.

"Oh, don't bother. I know he's alive. I mean, I did help him escape the mortuary, after all. Last he said, he was in Nigeria. And he answers my E-Mails now. He says he has a lot more time with you out of the way."

Ungrateful bitch! Jim helped improve their relationship, and she's talking to him like that? Women are fickle.

"Well, that's good," answered Jim. "Because I actually wasn't sorry."

"Jim! You came into my life and pretended to love me. Then I find out you're actually some sort of super-criminal? Don't you have any feelings? Do you know what that's like?"

Jim didn't have anything to say to this. He didn't know what it was like, but he knew he was right, he was always right. And yet…

"This is my bus, and don't even try to follow me." She said flatly. And with that, she got on the bus and Jim never saw her again.

The rain was still thundering down, showing no signs of stopping. Jim supposed he would do what he thought normal people did in such situations. He was going to the pub.


	4. Chapter 4: The Eternal Question

**THE NEXT DAY**

Jim woke up. His head was screaming "Get back to sleep you fool! If you get up now, I'm going to kill you!" Jim was a wise man who listened to his head over his heart, but right now his stomach had put its foot in the door and declared that it wanted a bacon sandwich. Jim tried to move, but his head split in two. "Get over it," He said to himself. "You've had worse headaches than this. Chocolate bullets aren't easy to swallow, remember."

Jim hauled himself into the kitchen. Thank god there was some bacon in the fridge. People say diamonds are a girl's best friend, but if that's the case then women are too vain. Bacon is a bloke's best mate. The bread was slightly hard, but what can you do?

Oh. The frying pan still had the piss/vomit mixture in it from before. Jim decided he really should clean that up. He would do that later though. He threw the vile concoction down the sink and put the bacon on the grill. Watching bacon cooking is one of life's great pleasures. The way it crinkles and crisps is almost hypnotic. Jim thought about what he was making. Somewhere out there in the countryside, a pig has had to lay down his life for Jim to experience five minutes of pleasure. The pig has been chopped up, pumped full of chemicals, chilled, pressed, sliced and packaged. Jim realised only he was the sort of person to think about that sort of thing.

As he watched his breakfast cook, an awful pain came over him in his mind. You see, this was the man who had committed impossible crimes, answered impossible questions, and yet he couldn't answer that one question, the eternal dilemma that had afflicted men for centuries. He, the great Jim Gordon Moriarty, had been foiled by a simple question.

What the hell happened last night?

He went to look at himself in the mirror for the first time. He had slept in his good suit. Well, it wasn't really very good anymore, since it was covered in blood. Where did that come from? You would think that this would make Jim worry more, but there was a more pressing question.

What's that smell?

Shit. Burning. He had become so wrapped up in his hangover contemplation, he totally forgot about the kitchen. Lucky he had a fire extinguisher.

He repeatedly sprayed the oven with foam-water, or whatever the fuck it was they put in those things. "Come on, ya bastard!" He shouted, furiously trying to put the fire out. When the flames did eventually lose their battle, Jim just went back to the living room and sat down. He wasn't really hungry anyway.

As soon as he sat down, yet another question came to mind.

Where's my wallet?

Jim fumbled wildly around in his jacket looking for it, and when he did pull it out of some nook or cranny, it fell to the ground. But Jim knew the contents of the wallet as soon as it hit the floor. You see, it was quite an annoying wallet, you could never drop it without something falling out.

And nothing fell out.


	5. Chapter 5: Ricky

Jim stumbled into the bar at 4 in the afternoon. His head was still throbbing. It was a sort of traditional English bar, a few pool tables over there, nasty decaying wood wherever you looked, and a sort of strange smoke in the air that certainly wasn't caused by cigarettes. The place was basically deserted save for a few angry looking men in the corner who didn't seem to notice him. He had dried blood on his suit, and that had gotten him a few strange looks on the underground. As he looked around the bar, it felt somehow familiar to him, but it gave off a negative vibe.

Jim approached the bartender, whose back was turned. "Excuse me?" He said to get some attention. The bartender sort of froze and didn't turn. "Oh god," he said nervously. "not you again."

"Why, what's wrong with little old me?" Jim asked, examining a particularly interesting spider that had climbed out of a crack in the wall. The bartender turned to face him. His face was grave. "Christ, and you've still got the blood and all there, you basically look like steamed shit," Answered the bartender. This made Jim impatient. He knew what he looked like; he just didn't know how it came to be.

"My name's Ricky and I'm guessing you don't remember a thing." Said the worried man behind the bar. Jim replied in earnest. "Well, no shit, Sher… Mr Detective. Regale me with the tale of last night."

Ricky moved in towards Jim and spoke in hushed tones. "You came in here at about 10 o'clock last night. You were mouthing off about your bankruptcy and some woman who had pissed you off. Anyway, those three blokes in the corner- don't look. Those three hang about here all the time. Shady characters, if you ask me. 10 years they've been coming here and I've never gotten as much as a name. Anyway, the guy in the middle seems pretty interested in you, so he buys you a brandy and you neck it. He strikes up a conversation with you about the woman. You said her name was Molly something or other. This seems to ring a bell with Skinhead, and he buys you a pint of cider. And this continues until eventually you start getting angry with him and pull out a knife. I tell you two to take it outside, and the next thing I know you walk in with a cricket bat stuck in your leg. Well, I say you walked, but it was really more of a stumble. I say you're in pretty bad shape and you produce your wallet for some reason. It looked like you were loaded. My man outside tells me you didn't get mugged or anything."

Jim hung on his every word, wondering just what the hell he was thinking. He then asked an important question. "Did I spend any money?"

"No," answered Ricky. "The guy bought everything for you."

"Well, some fucking use you've been. Did I say where I was going when I left?" Jim said.

"You muttered something about a hospital. That's all I know." Replied Ricky.

Jim turned to leave, but as he made his way to the door, he decide he would take care of some unfinished business. He walked over to the men in the corner and spoke.

"Which one of you bitches wants to dance?"


	6. Chapter 6: DLA

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: the Dole is the unemployment office. DLA is Disability Living Allowance. Just for all yous Americans.)

Was it his fault? Well, it might have been.

Come on Jim, playing the blame game requires too much effort. And in your current situation, effort isn't really something you can do. He supposed he should thank the nice men.

Those nice, skinhead, drunk, pissed off men. He was going to thank them because he was thinking of going to the hospital anyway, and they had basically gotten him a limo with big flashing lights on that other people had to move out of the way for. With a bed! Not the most comfortable, granted. But a bed's a bed and a bed's a place to rest your head. I mean, they sort of broke his nose and two of his ribs in the process, but it's a fair enough price to pay.

His Kung-Fu wasn't as Keanu Reeves-like as he had first thought. He had asked them to dance, but he didn't think they meant knocking him over at a crowded rave. Like wot happened when he woz sixteen, like. Only this time he hadn't nearly overdosed on ecstasy.

The prick doctors in the ambulance weren't much help. They looked pissed, probably because they had to come out to help a poor, guilty, criminal who was totally asking for it. Honestly, people these days. They should bring back National Service. That would teach them how to look up to the lecherous and cheating. Cheating was the gift that man gave himself. As Mr Burns off The Simpsons said once.

"Cheery bunch, aren't you?" said Jim with more than a hint of sarcasm. He couldn't wait to get to hospital. A nurse with big tits serving him tea like that time he went to Sherlock's. Or was that the most violent episode of Come Dine with Me ever? Come Dine With A Violent Criminal And A Juvenile Detective. Or had Channel 5 done that already? Hard to tell.

He didn't get an answer from the paramedics. Pricks. People like this should be on the Dole. Actually, why didn't Jim just go on the Dole? The pay is great and the hours are better. Because running a criminal empire technically doesn't count as employment, it wouldn't even be fraud. And now he had been busted up, he could proper claim DLA!

He would figure out how to claim his benefits later. Right now he was worried about paying off that bloody rent. His men hadn't contacted him in ages, and he really wanted Sherlock back. Basically, his life was in tatters. He was none too happy about it. However, just then, one of the doctors actually smiled and spoke to Jim. "We're going to see Molly." He


	7. Chapter 7: Return of the Mack Daddy

Jim felt horrible. Maybe he could make a joke out of the whole situation. It wasn't exactly the first time he'd been on his knees in front of an ex-girlfriend. That was a bad one.

"Please, Molly. I'm begging you! You have to just let me go!"

He was in a dark and dingy hospital room some hours after he got beat up by those guys outside the bar. The worst of his physical pain had subsided, but he was only getting started. Not that he was emotionally hurt by any of this; it was just a total pain in the arse.

Molly was laughing herself into pieces. "Let you go?" she joked, "That's what happens when you take the piss out of my boyfriend!"

Nuh uh. Jim could not quite believe his ears. No way did Molly bloody Hooper, who was, he must admit, somewhat beautiful, decide to go out with some fat bastard who stands in the corner of a pub and has _Up the Hammers _Tattooed on his arm and is violent at the slightest provocation. There must have been some mistake.

"No way is that fat cunt your boyfriend, you have standards, Molly!" He shouted. "You went out with me!"

Molly thought for a second, and said, "Actually, you're right. I just wanted to see the look on your face. I do have his phone number though. Would you like to speak with him?"

"Damn right," Said Jim angrily. "I'm gonna give him a piece of my incredible mind."

Molly dialled the number and gave Jim the phone. He didn't even get a chance to open his mouth before fatso rudely cut him off.

"You're Jimmy boy, right?" He said, obviously drunk. "Well don't even bother comin' after me 'cause I burned down your apartment and I run like fuck."

Oh, now that's just brilliant. That's just absolutely brilliant. No, really. He didn't have to worry about the rent anymore. He thanked the mystery man and hung up on him. "Well," he said to Molly. "Guess I'll be off then! I might be homeless, but at least I don't have the nanny state breathing down my back. My worries are over!" He babbled cheerfully.

Molly was smirking. It was a strange look, and it really didn't suit her. It meant she wasn't going to say something nice. "Oh no, James." She said with a sinister tone in her voice. "Your worries are just beginning. You can come in now."

As a matter of fact, someone did enter the room. It wasn't a person Jim had been expecting to see. He was a tall figure, dark and quite imposing. He entered the room like something out of a John Wayne film. That coat going to his knees made him look like… well, a twat.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"

Bloody Sherlock Holmes, coming and going whenever he felt like it. Jim couldn't really blame him; after all, it was he who had left Sherlock. Wait, now he was talking like they had a relationship. Shut up, Jim. Sherlock is talking now.

"How are you, James?" He asked. "Have a good time while I was away? Terribly sorry about that money thing, it's just that I ran into a bit of trouble in Uganda and those people only spoke the universal language of money. But enough about me, how have you been?"

Uganda? Was he on a tour of Africa or something?

Jim was on the verge of crying. He shouted out, "What? You leave me penniless, and now it doesn't matter because I'm homeless! All you ever think about is self, self, self! You should be more considerate. For a long time I thought I would never find someone as smart as you. I still remember that tingle I felt when I first hired that taxi driver to grab your attention. I'll never feel anything like that again! And to think I-"

"Relax." Sherlock cut him off, and then produced a handgun from inside his coat. He pointed it at Jim and said, "I want you to stand up and turn around. I'm going to say something to you. Then you are going to walk through that door behind you and go through the hospital shouting it. And I am going to laugh my hair off."

Jim snorted at this. "Your hair?" He asked smarmily. "It's going to need quite a force to lift that ten-ton weight." Jim looked at the bloody mess around his knees. "Still, how am I supposed to move when I'm in this condition?" He asked.

Sherlock simply grinned like a two-year-old.

"No rush."


	8. Chapter 8: Comeback Season

(Author's Notice: the first person to guess the warning can have a cookie.)

"Look out, He's got a gun!"

That's what they should have been saying. It's funny how people listen more than they look.

"Hah! Listen to him, will you?"

That's what they were actually saying. Because as terrifying as seeing James Moriarty being walked through a hospital at gunpoint is, it's nothing compared to what Jim's saying.

"I'm a big, fat, greedy bastard; I'm a big, fat, greedy bastard."

This was the line that Sherlock had demanded Jim to say out loud as he walked towards the elevator. To Jim's mind, it was a rather poor choice of words. The language was far too simplistic, and the delivery wasn't exactly thespian. Still, to everyone else, it was fucking hilarious. Fortunately for Jim, the elevator wasn't far away. Sherlock and Jim got in and Sherlock pressed the button for the ground floor.

"I missed you." was all Jim could muster.

"The feeling isn't exactly mutual." came the cold reply. Sherlock then dropped a bomb.

"I'm surprised Sebastian never told you."

"What, the fuck," Jim answered angrily. "Did you just say?"

"He's been watching me. Everywhere I went, I just couldn't avoid him. Pyongyang, then Belgrade, Belfast… It's easy to get used to him following you around. He would track me to the ends of the earth. And yet he never told you. How tragic it is." Sherlock seemed to be acting this out, like he had planned it.

Jim spotted a fatal hole in Sherlock's accusation.

"How did you find out about this? He's not the sort of man who'd just announce his presence to someone like you."

"Au Contraire, James." Sherlock answered. "Let me take you back to the night of June 30th, 2012."

"It's 11 PM in Monte Carlo, perfect time to get up to some mischief. Renowned socialite Horace Jordan has announced a party on his boat. I decide to attend because let's face it, if I'm going to be dead, I may as well live a little. Dress is important, so I decide to wear that same old suit that's done me so well over the years. Bleaching my hair has surely helped as well.

I make my way down to the boat, unawares that this night will be one of the most eventful of my life… well death, but surely you get the idea by now. So I walk onto the boat and none other than Jordan himself stops me. He's a short man, only fifty but he looks about seventy five. His beard and hair have gone all white, and he asks me in a fake-suave American tone,

"Name, please?"

Oh drat. In my enthusiasm, I forgot that the party was only open to his friends. I don't know any of his friends. Oh bollocks.

"Francis Irvine," I blurt out, wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into. Fortunately, Horace takes it surprisingly well.

"Frankie? Is that you?" Horace asked with little surprise. "Jesus, that surgery's done you some good! Step right on in; I'll be through to talk to you in a minute."

So I'm wondering how I managed to avoid that awkward situation as I make my way up the stairs. I was really only there for the free bar, but I noticed a lonely figure on the deck outside. This is a party in Monte Carlo, and someone insists on being alone. That's bad news. So I step outside, see if I can find out what's going on. He turns to me, He looks old, 40s. 50s? no, I don't think so, Long beard, hasn't shaved in weeks, homeless? No, suit's high quality. He looks raggedy, hardly a fashion statement. This man is a mystery I can't be arsed solving. I don't recognize him. But he strikes up a dialogue anyway.

"Just in time, Mr Holmes." He says to me, like he knows how this is going to play out.

"And you are?" I ask him. I find it terribly rude that he act like a Bond villain without knowing Bond.

"Going, Sherlock. My time here is over." He's almost nervous. Afraid of me, I presume.

"Understandable." I answer. "You must be a fan?"

"Ah!" He exclaims. "I'm nothing of the sort. I'm far more important."

"Really?" I ask him. "You're only important if you have something I want."

It turns out he has just such a thing. He walks over to me and gives me a note, which I promptly read.

"Is this supposed to be a message, Mr Moran?" I ask him. "How do you know my name?" He asks back. I ponder for a moment, and say, "I didn't, wild guess." He seems satisfied. "Well, no, Mr Holmes." He says gravely. "It's supposed to be a warning. I recommend you take it on board. And before I forget, make sure to send a message to Jim from me. He abandoned me, show him I won't stand for it."

Sherlock sighed. "Back to the present, Mr Moriarty!" He said jokingly. Jim panicked. "W-wait! Tell me the rest of the story!" He yelled.

Sherlock seemed mystified. "That was the story. He just upped and left after that. Never heard from him again. I'm getting impatient, Jim."

"No-no wait!" Jim was still panicking. "Two more things. Okay, why did you do what he told you?" Sherlock laughed, a rare sight. "How could I refuse the request of such a gentleman?" He said, taking the ridiculousness of the whole situation in his stride. "You have one more question."

Jim considered. "What was the warning?" He asked surprisingly calmly. "Should I be worried?"

Sherlock laughed again. But this time it was more evil. No, not evil. What was that word? Oh yes. Menacing.

"Well for starters, Jim, you should be worried." He said over his laughter. "And I suppose, in a way. I've already told you what it was." Moriarty was confused. "No, you haven't." He answered.

Sherlock was smirking now. "You always were the simple one, Jim. Go back. Think over that conversation again. What did I say? Nothing stand out? Oh well. You won't have time to think it over. Ground floor, Moriarty. This is where we get off."


End file.
